


Don't do so well alone

by lordhellebore



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brotherhood, Brothers, Castration, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, Sick Character, Sickfic, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way to the Wall, nothing quite makes sense to Theon. Not the way Sansa keeps staring at him, and certainly not the way Podrick keeps fussing over him. He doesn’t get it and just wishes they’d stop. Falling ill doesn’t help, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [far past the frozen leaves and the haunted, frightened trees](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6616678) by [janie_tangerine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine). 



> I needed to exorcise some Season 06 demons. This is shameless hurt/comfort and wish fulfilment, because that seems to be all I can think of when it comes to Theon.

“Theon?”

The voice startles Reek into awareness, and before he can think about where he is or who’s with him, he’s already shaking his head. “Not Theon! I’m not. It’s Reek!”

There’s a soft sigh. “Will you come to the fire?”

He should know better, really. It’s the fourth day since they met Lady Brienne and her squire, since they saved them from the Bolton men, and each evening, it’s the same. 

“Please, come. You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t noticed – he never does anymore – but he obeys and scrambles to his feet. The fire is only a handful of steps from the tree under which he’d curled up, but he’s exhausted, his legs are hurting from riding all day, and he falls more than he sits down. He doesn’t like sitting close to it, although it _is_ warmer, and gets warmer still when a blanket appears around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he mutters. Pieces of bread and cheese are pressed into his hands, and he tries to concentrate on eating, tries to ignore the nausea that threatens to close up his throat when he thinks about _her_ sitting across the fire. Sansa. She’s looking at him like she’s done the past evenings, with that calm, calculating gaze that makes him shake worse than the cold.

These last days, she hasn’t spoken to him, but he knows she must be thinking about what to do with him, now that she doesn’t need him any longer. She’s got Lady Brienne now, and Podrick; they’ll get her safely to Castle Black. 

He starts when his shoulders are touched and looks up: it’s Podrick, who put a second blanket around him – his own, he realizes.

“You shouldn’t –” 

Podrick shakes his head and shifts closer to the fire. “You need it more.”

Every day since they met, Podrick has been doing this: making sure he’s at least halfway warm, making sure he eats. It’s almost as disconcerting as Sansa’s looks, and he hastily concentrates on his food again.

*-*-*-*

It’s been forever since Reek last sat on a horse – at least it feels that way – and by the fifth day his legs are so stiff when he dismounts for the night that they give in under him. The reins slip from his frozen fingers, but before he can hit the ground, he’s grabbed around the waist and held up, his head coming to rest against a shoulder. For a few moments, they don’t move – he’s so tired he’s almost certain he could fall asleep like this.

“Come on, you need to sit down.”

As he hobbles along, barely held up by Podrick – and who else would it be? – he can feel Sansa’s gaze on him, making him shudder.

“I’ll have a fire ready in no time,” Podrick says, and Reek doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t because of the cold. 

And it _does_ feel better with a fire and blankets, and after he’s had bread and dried meat. If only he knew what Sansa is thinking. He wouldn’t mind so much if she decided to take his head; she’s got every right. All that he wants is to know what to expect. But then, he hasn’t had that luxury in forever, either.

“You’d better lie down,” Podrick says into his thoughts. “We’ll be on the road early. You should get some sleep.”

*-*-*-*

“Why are you doing this?”

Podrick looks at him from guileless brown eyes, his round face betraying nothing but confusion in the flickering light of the flames.

It makes him feel almost angry, and tempted to shake off the blanket that ends up on him no matter how often he tells Podrick that there’s no need. “Don’t you know what I did?”

“Lady Brienne told me. Lady Sansa . . . you saved her and helped her escape.”

“I meant before that.”

Podrick nods. “I know.”

“Then why –”

“Can I speak to you?” It’s Sansa’s voice, making him wince – she’s standing over them, looking at him with an air of determination that makes a sick feeling of anticipation spread in his belly. Now, at last, he’ll know. 

Podrick vacates his seat for her, vanishing into the shadows to look after the horses. Sansa sits down, and Reek finds that he can’t look her in the eye.

“She’s a good woman. Strange, but still.”

It takes him a moment to understand that she is talking about Lady Brienne.

“She reminds me of Arya. I always thought Arya was foolish for wanting to do things that weren’t ladylike. For wanting to fight. You taught her how to handle the bow, didn’t you?”

He’s surprised that she knows about it; he hadn’t thought she’d paid much attention to Arya, or to him, when they’d grown up. For a moment, there’s a voice in his head that tells him it wasn’t him, it was Theon Greyjoy, and he’s _not_ , but he wills himself not to listen. “I . . . I did.”

“I’m glad you did. And that father got her those sword fighting lessons in King’s Landing. Maybe it’s kept her alive. Maybe I should learn as well.”

It’s not a bad idea. Now that the world has gone completely mad, women could use that kind of knowledge.

“Maybe it would have helped me against . . . against him.”

“It wouldn’t. _Nothing_ helps. He’ll always – it would’ve just made it worse.” He stares down at his right hand, at the place where his little finger should be under the glove.

“What did he to do you? You never were – what could he have done to make you like this?”

“I can’t . . . please don’t. Don’t ask.” If only she’d tell him why she’s talking to him in the first place. 

But she’s silent, and it’s only when he raises his head that he realizes that she’s crying, tears running down her cheeks quietly. He wishes he could do anything, but he doesn’t dare.

“If you hadn’t helped me –” She rubs away the tears almost angrily, and he can’t help but think that even there, what he did was too little, too late. “What made you do it?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” It doesn’t even feel like a lie – he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to think of it, even if it’s all he _can_ think of during the long hours on horseback. Her, and Ramsay, and the way he had – 

“You have to tell me. I need to know!”

“Please, don’t –”

“Tell me!” She’s gripped his wrist, there are more tears, leaving pale tracks on her dirty cheeks as they make their way down to her dry, cracked lips. He’s got to think of how she looked back when he’d seen her last, when she’d left for King’s Landing – happy, and beautiful, and so, so much younger. She’d known nothing of what the world could hold, what a man could do to another man, or to a woman, and, he thinks, maybe if he’d been able to convince his father of the alliance, Robb could have retrieved her from the Lannisters before –

“I did it because . . . because I couldn’t – when he hurt me, I deserved it. Everything. But you did nothing wrong. He had no right – I couldn’t watch any longer. I couldn’t let Myranda – you’d have become like me, and I couldn’t let them, not when you’re my –” He grits his teeth before he can go on – he doesn’t deserve to say anything like it, and he is sure she wouldn’t want to hear it.

“Your what?”

He shakes his head, but she doesn’t seem inclined to let it go; she cups his face between her hands and forces him to look up at her – she’s stronger than one would think. Her eyes are hard, with bruises of exhaustion under them making her look older than her years and even more like her lady mother. “I’m your what?”

“My . . . my sister,” he chokes out, her gaze boring into him relentlessly, “you’re my sister, and they’re my brothers, and I could _never_ have killed them even if I’d found them. I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry! I know I should be dead, and I won’t try to run if that’s your decision. I’d deserve nothing less.”

It’s a lot more than what he’d wanted to say, only he couldn’t stop himself, and now that he’s done, he closes his eyes, because he can’t watch her reaction, can’t look when she tells him that yes, he deserves to die and calls Lady Brienne to finally do it.

“I wish you had remembered that earlier.” He winces at her murmured words, but instead of going on, she only sighs deeply. Her hands fall away from his cheeks, settling on his shoulders. They’re . . . almost gentle, and that makes no sense at all. 

“I’m glad one of my brothers was there when I needed him.”

His eyes fly open again. “What? Why would you –”

“ _Theon_.”

He can’t even protest – nothing but a moan will come when he tries to say that’s _not_ him, he’s Reek, _Reek_ – but then, Reek has no brothers and sisters, wouldn’t have pushed Myranda to her death and escaped from Ramsay. Helped someone else escape, no less, or taken up a sword and killed that Bolton soldier.

“Theon,” she repeats, and while he still winces, he forces himself to keep looking at her as she presses on. “Maybe I just don’t care anymore – what you did, it’s in the past. It was a mistake, a bad one, and I’m not saying I can forget it so easily. But there are more important things. Robb and my parents are dead. Arya and Bran and Rickon – they may be alive, but I might never see them again, and I have no idea if we’ll even make it to the Wall, to Jon. But _you’re_ here. You saved me. And you won’t betray me, will you?”

He’s shaking his head before she’s even finished. “Never, m’lady. Never again, I swear.”

He’s not sure what it is about his words that makes her smile at him in this strange, sad fashion, but then, anybody smiling at him in any way that’s not cruel is something he’d never hoped for anymore, so he decides not to question his luck. Still, he can’t help but shudder at the memory of Ramsay smirking.

She frowns, but before he can open his mouth to say something – he’s not even sure what, maybe just to apologize again – she speaks. “That’s good, then.” Her grip tightens, fingers digging painfully deep into his shoulders. “Don’t leave me, do you understand? Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I won’t,” he croaks, and he’s never meant something as much as this in all his life.

“Good.” Sansa lets go of him – it’s a relief and yet, almost, he wishes she hadn’t. “Sleep,” she says as she gets up. “You look tired.”

All he can do is nod and curl up under his blanket. He’s asleep within moments.

*-*-*-*

“Wake up! Come on, wake up.” Someone’s calling him, shaking him by the shoulder. “Wake up! Theon!”

He sits up with a whimper curling in on himself, away from whoever it is. “I’m . . . I’m not –”

“It’s all right. You were dreaming.”

He doesn’t fully understand the words, but when nothing happens, he dares to open his eyes: there’s a dying fire in a circle of trees, and a dark shape huddled close to him.

“It’s Podrick.” The voice sounds warm and worried. Not at all like _him_. “You were dreaming.”

Sucking in a deep, shaky breath, he manages to relax at least a little. He’s not at the Dreadfort, or in Winterfell. He’s with Sansa, they escaped and are on their way to the Wall. And Ramsay . . . he’s not here.

“I'm . . . I'll be fine. I'm all right. Just a nightmare. Just a dream.” As he says it, more to convince himself than anything else, the images of the dream come bleeding back into his mind – but they don’t matter, because it was only a dream, nothing more. He’s not back with Ramsay, back in that room and bound to the cross, there’s nobody here who’d flay another of his fingers, the knife slowly and meticulously peeling off layer upon layer of skin until finally, it hurts too much to scream or even to breathe and all he can do is beg him to make it stop, cut it off, please, _please cut it off_ –

He yelps when something touches his back – it’s Podrick, staring at him in complete horror, and it’s only then that he realizes that he said it all out loud. For some moments, they stay motionless – how Podrick isn’t shoving him away in disgust is beyond him – then Podrick’s hand closes, ever so gently, around his own. The one with four fingers.

“Why?” It’s barely a whisper.

Podrick shrugs. “Why not? I mean . . . why shouldn’t I?”

There are a hundred reasons: he’s a vile traitor, he should be punished instead of taken care of, he deserves to die – of starvation, the cold, Ramsay’s hounds, Lady Brienne’s sword – deserves everything Ramsay did, deserves to be Reek, and nobody cares for _that creature_. But Podrick won’t understand, he can’t. Maybe Robb could have, he always seemed to understand him, back when – but he’s dead, and he probably wouldn’t even have wanted to know, and he would’ve been right to just kill him on sight. He should be dead anyway, should’ve died with Robb at the Red Wedding.

“But you didn’t. You’re here now.”

He stares at Podrick, uncomprehending. “How do you –” _Oh._

Again, he’s just blurted it all out without even noticing.

“Just . . . I can’t, please, please leave me be.” He’s almost sobbing now, and Podrick lets go of his hand, though his other hand is still on his back. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. It’s only –” He shrugs. “I’m sorry.”

It’s too absurd even for words – somebody _apologizing_ to him for wanting to _help_ him – and he just can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t know, later, how he ended up outside the circle of trees in knee-deep snow, throwing up what little he’d managed to eat before he fell asleep, and he doesn’t know how long he stays kneeling there, tears slowly freezing on his face.

*-*-*-*

Three days later, there’s no denying anymore that he is ill. He’d tried to hide it, to will it away, ignoring his pounding head and the hot and cold flashes. After all, he’s lived through so much worse, and he can’t allow himself to slow them down. But he’s noticed the worried looks of the other three when he couldn’t help coughing a few times, and the moment comes when the trees and snow are blurring together around him. Slowly, very slowly, it seems, the world tilts to the side – it’s only when he hits the ground that he understands it was him falling from the saddle.

“He’s burning up.” A gentle hand is placed on his forehead. Podrick. “My lady, we’ve got to make camp.”

“No,” he croaks through the shards of glass sitting in his throat, “no, we can’t!” It’s barely mid-afternoon yet, and they need to keep going. Nobody heeds his opinion, though – _and why would they do that,_ Reek _, why would anyone listen to you?_ – and it doesn’t take long before he’s leaning against a tree wrapped in _three_ of their four blankets and as close as possible to the fire.

He’s closed his eyes, but he can still hear them talking. Sansa wants to return to the inn they passed in the morning so he can rest inside for a day or two, but luckily, Lady Brienne manages to convince her that it’s better if they keep going north on the morrow. They can’t risk being recognized, can’t risk staying among people.

He’s nothing more than a burden like this. Why can’t they simply leave and move on without him?

“Because when you promised Lady Sansa not to leave her,” Podrick says just beside him, “I think that promise went both ways.”

He feels too sick to even be annoyed with himself for his inability to control what he’s saying. After all that Podrick knows already, it can’t get much worse. The thought is almost comforting, and he doesn’t fight it when he drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, it’s just before nightfall, and though he doesn’t speak and just barely opens his eyes, he shouldn’t be surprised that not even a few minutes later, Podrick sits down next to him with a steaming goblet in hand. Apart from food, they’d bought some skins of ale at the inn – with him and Sansa staying well out of sight – to help them keep warm on the journey. 

His hands are shaking too badly to hold the goblet, but Podrick must have expected it, since he saves it from falling with one swift grasp, then helps him drink in silence, one small, hot sip after the other. It doesn’t take long before his eyes close again on their own accord as he keeps drinking – he’s warm now, and still tired. It’s like when his mother would take care of him during a fever and feed him hot wine, or when Maester Luwin had given him medicine when he’d got sick just like this in his first month at Winterfell.

He can’t prevent himself from thinking of them, can’t pretend anymore that those memories of Theon Greyjoy’s life aren’t his. Podrick doesn’t comment on it when the tears come, when he cries for the mother who’s too frail now to survive for much longer and whom he knows he’ll never see again, for Maester Luwin who’s dead by his fault, for Robb, Lord Stark, and all the others – maybe even himself. All he does is hold him, until the exhaustion takes over and, once again, he’s asleep.

*-*-*-*

It’s when he jerks awake for the third time after he’s just dozed off in the saddle in front of Podrick that he realizes this won’t work.

In the morning, he hadn’t felt any better. He could walk a few steps, but there had been no way that he’d be able to ride by himself for any longer amount of time. So it was decided that he would share a horse with Podrick, since Lady Brienne needs her hands free in case they’re attacked.

Now that Podrick barely prevented him from falling yet again – he’d awoken flailing wildly – he wishes once more that they’d left him behind. It shouldn’t take long before he’ll pass out in the snow and not wake up anymore, but before he can even say anything, Podrick’s one-armed grip on him tightens.

“We’ll make this work,” he insists. “Maybe . . . will you try something?”

“What?”

“Just – it’s because of . . . of _him_ , isn’t it?” 

Nodding weakly, he can’t suppress a shudder. Being held in place from behind without being able to see who does it is uncomfortable even when he’s awake. But once he’s half asleep, his feverish mind will go straight back to the room with the cross, and then – 

Before he can think any further, he’s shaken by a bone-rattling cough, and for a while they’re busy keeping him in the saddle once more.

“All right,” Podrick murmurs when he slumps back against him after the fit has abated. “All right. Good. Now, just . . . try not to think. Just listen. I’ve never tried this with anyone, but –” Even in this state, he notices how embarrassed Podrick sounds. “Right.” Podrick draws a deep breath, urging the horse forward, since they’ve lost a few feet on Sansa and Lady Brienne. Then he starts singing.

It takes some moments before it becomes recognizable at all what he’s doing – Podrick is a terrible singer and more murmuring in a vaguely melodious fashion. But it sounds soft and strangely calming, and it’s too exhausting to think much about how bizarre all of this is. His head feels almost as though someone were taking a hammer to it, and his teeth are chattering despite him being wrapped in blankets and the additional warmth Podrick’s body provides. The bright snow makes the headache even worse, and though he still tries to resist, in the end, he gives in and closes his eyes.

It’s not all that bad. As his mind and body grow more and more heavy, for some moments all he can think of, can _hear_ is Ramsay – Bolton soldiers will get them, in the end, and then . . . _I’ve been waiting for you, Reek. You didn’t think you could run from me, did you. But then, you_ are _stupid. Seems I’ll have to think of something more memorable to finally teach you right._ But then his voice is drowned out by another, softly droning familiar words. Podrick. Podrick who’s singing a song he knew, a long time ago. It reminds him of being a small boy, of his mother who’d sung for him in her calm, slightly hoarse voice whenever he’d taken a beating from Rodrik or Maron. He’d felt comforted, then, and safe – and now, he thinks, half asleep already, now, it almost, almost feels the same. 

*-*-*-*

It’s in the middle of the night when he wakes up with a half-muffled scream that turns into a coughing fit. For a few moments, he doesn’t know where he is and almost panics, gasping for air uncontrollably. Then there are familiar voices, and Podrick, who’s lying right next to him, telling the others not to worry, it’s not an attack. 

“You all right?” Podrick asks when the coughing has finally abated.

“Fine. Just – you know. Dreams.”

Thankfully, Podrick says nothing to that, and he hopes they can all just go back to sleep. But while it seems to work for the others, he finds himself wide awake, aching all over and shivering, despite the fact that he’s still wrapped in Podrick’s and Lady Brienne’s blankets in addition to his own. It shouldn’t matter – he’d often been much colder with Ramsay, and in so much more pain – and yet he can’t seem to ignore his aching head and joints, or keep his teeth from chattering violently once again. It doesn’t help that he’d been lying awake like this far too often before: afraid and hurting, waiting for Ramsay to come and wake him. Before he’d known his place, before he’d become Reek, it had happened so often that in the end, he’d barely been able to sleep. 

He can’t see himself getting better out here, only sicker and harder to drag along. He should just sneak away into the night, find a deep snow bank and spare them all the bother. But he swore Sansa not to leave her, and he can’t go back on that, can’t betray a Stark yet again. Not when she asked him to stay, when she called him _brother_. Like Robb did.

Still, she’d be better off without him, and maybe, despite his promise, it would be the right thing to do. Already, he’s moving, trying to slip out from under the blankets as quietly as possible when – 

“You can’t stay like this. It’s too cold; you’ll catch your death.” It’s a bright night, bright enough to see the worry on Podrick’s face as he, very slowly, reaches out. 

He doesn’t resist – the chance to leave unnoticed is gone, and sharing body heat is the only way he might live through this. Burying his face against Podrick’s chest, he forces himself to hold still; they’re pressed too close together under the blankets, and it feels too much like being held down. But then, _they_ didn’t rub his back the way Podrick does now, nor did they half-sing and half-murmur the words of old songs in a soft, unmelodious voice. And again, it’s helping – slowly, the tension and the cold seep out of him, to be replaced with warmth. Still, he’s not tired, and he can feel from Podrick’s breathing that he, too, is awake.

“Theon?”

He grits his teeth, but this is his name, he’s _Theon_ , and he’d better get used to it again. They won’t hurt him for responding to it. 

“Don’t try that again, please? I can’t be awake every time, and I’d rather not see Lady Sansa cry over your frozen corpse.” There’s no reproach in Podrick’s voice, and still, it makes him cringe with guilt.

“I’m sorry. I won’t. Just . . .” It seems too exhausting to even begin to try explaining. 

“We’ll get to Castle Black,” Podrick goes on. “She’ll be safe, and you as well. It’s what we came to do: to protect and help her, and now you too. It’s not a hardship, it’s what Lady Sansa wants. She cares for you, and that’s more than many have. Don’t be ungrateful by throwing it away.”

Podrick is right, Reek – no, _Theon_ knows it. And he knows as well that not even so long ago, he’d have thought the same. It’s what he was taught growing up, how the Starks raised him. If he were in Podrick’s place, Lord Stark and Robb would expect nothing less of him, he is certain. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Podrick’s chest. “I won’t – I’ll try to remember.” 

Podrick’s arms around him tighten slightly, and it’s not uncomfortable. “I’m just glad I can be truly useful, for once.”

That is making no sense. Surely, Lady Brienne must be glad to have him with her? He’s one of the most conscientious squires Theon has ever seen. When he says as much, Podrick is silent for too long.

“She’s very kind to me, but she doesn’t need me,” he says in the end. He sounds resigned, and Theon doesn’t like it one bit. “She’d do just as well on her own. Before she taught me, I didn’t even know how to fight. And she wasn’t exactly happy when Ser Jaime gave me to her.” 

Theon doesn’t know what to say to that. From what he could tell, Lady Brienne doesn’t seem to mind having Podrick for a squire. And he . . . well. “I’m glad he did.”

“Me too,” Podrick agrees, very quietly. “I think . . . at least I might be less of a burden on her than any knight I served before.”

It’s Theon’s opinion that those knights must have been rather stupid, but before he can say any more, Podrick shifts and wraps the blankets tighter around them.

“It’s not that long until morning. We should try to sleep.” 

*-*-*-*

Theon was right. He’s not getting better. The coughing and fever get worse the next day, and the next, until days and nights, consciousness and dreams blur together and he can’t tell which is which any longer. He’s not sure, either, which is true – did he flee with Sansa and fall ill in the wild, or did some wound get infected and he’s still with Ramsay? Did he only dream jumping from the battlements and all that followed? 

Sometimes, he is back on the cross again, waiting for Ramsay to come and hurt him. And he does come, and he does hurt him, over and over and over until it’s too exhausting, too painful to even beg or cry anymore.

At other times, he’s in the kennels, curled up on the dirty straw, trying in vain to stop thinking about Robb and how he betrayed him for nothing, for the respect of a family that never cared for him in the first place. Of Sansa and how he’d failed her that night, and for so long after.

She is with him too, sometimes. Trembling and crying in her ripped wedding gown, long after Ramsay was finished. Lying abed, day after day, looking at him from dull, red-rimmed eyes. Yelling at him, telling him he deserves everything Ramsay did and worse. 

“Tell me why Bran and Rickon should be gone, while you still breathe the air. Tell me to my face, Theon! Tell me that they weren’t your brothers!”

They weren’t – they were farm boys, not Bran and Rickon, but how does that even make anything better? They were innocent children just the same, and they died because of him. If there truly are seven hells, there must be a special place in them for people who murder children.

At other times, Sansa seems worried, almost gentle, and it’s even worse. It can’t be true, must mean that this is the dream and he still is with Ramsay. She could never be like this after what he did, and after what he let Ramsay do to her. He should have helped her, should have found the courage to kill Ramsay then and there. It was his duty to protect her, or at least to die trying.

Instead, now it’s her who is taking care of him, her hands soothing on his burning cheeks and forehead. Once, he’s cradled in her arms after she fed him hot ale, his head pillowed against her chest. It’s so soft and warm that he knows it can’t be true, can’t be for him.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispers, then. “You can’t, Theon. You _promised_.” 

He won’t, he wants to tell her, he won’t break his promise, even if Ramsay flays and cuts off more fingers, or whatever else. He knows his family and his duty now, even if he’s lost his honor. But he’s so tired, and he never quite knows whether or not he said something or only imagined it.

Sometimes he thinks he must have said horrible things: when he’s not at the Dreadfort or at Winterfell, there are times when Sansa, Podrick, and even Lady Brienne look at him with such sadness and horror that it frightens him. But he can’t remember what he said; all he can do is ask their forgiveness for troubling them, and so he does, again and again. Mostly, it’s Podrick – when Ramsay is gone, he’s always there, always close, holding him, warming him, murmuring softly when he’s afraid and crying. He shouldn’t have to do this; a squire has more important things to take care of than him. But Podrick won’t listen – nobody listens to Reek, of course they don’t, and they shouldn’t. He should be quiet, and sleep, and not be in the way. 

Luckily, as time goes by, everything becomes more and more distant. The snow and the cold, the cross, Podrick, Sansa, and even Ramsay – they all fade away into darkness.

Maybe now, it can be over. Please, let it be.

TBC . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so ridiculously long - RL happened and writer's block happened. But here you go, finally! Thanks for staying with me <3

The first thing he notices is that he’s warm. The dull ache in his head and body doesn’t matter; there is warmth and softness all around him, he can’t remember ever feeling something quite like it before, and for a while, all he does is bask in it.

Slowly, bit by bit, he notices more of his surroundings. The soft warmth around him is coming from furs, pulled up to his chin; there is cooler air on his face and the sound of a fire crackling close by. It feels safe and comfortable, and now he does remember – it reminds him of something, a place that makes his chest ache with longing and bitterness alike. Winterfell.

It’s then that Theon remembers who he is and what happened. Did they make it, then? Is this Castle Black? Or was it a dream after all and he’s still with Ramsay? But then, why would he be allowed such comforts? He opens his eyes – only to find himself looking at someone standing over him, clad all in black, with a pale face and unruly dark hair.

Jon.

Later, Theon won’t understand how he even managed to get out of bed, but right then, his only thought is that this is Robb and Sansa’s brother, their _real_ brother, not like himself, and before he can think any further, he’s sprawled face-down on the wooden floor, trembling with cold and exhaustion after mere moments.

There’s a sigh and a muttered, “Seven hells,” then he is hoisted up into strong arms and placed back on the bed. Warm furs settle over him once again, and more are stuffed behind his back and head so he doesn’t have to look up at Jon lying flat on his back. Jon, who sits down next to him, looking at him in a fashion he can’t even begin to describe.

“Just what do you think you were doing there?” he asks, but when Theon tries to speak, his parched throat won’t let him do more than croak something unintelligible.

After a few sips of ale – and he won’t think about the fact that he was just fed like a child by the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, which is something else entirely than Podrick or even Sansa doing it – he tries again: “I . . . kn-kneeling.”

“What for?”

“Because,” he whispers, and he hates how pathetic he sounds, “because . . . so you could take my head.”

Jon frowns, looking at him with a hard gaze that makes it abundantly clear that like them all, he, too, is changed. He’d always been gloomy, but this – he’s not the bastard boy anymore Theon knew at Winterfell.

“I’ll be frank”, Jon says eventually, “I did think about it. Sansa and Lady Brienne and her squire, they told me what happened, and they all spoke for you. I was considering what they were saying, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. I’ve had to deal with enough traitors lately, and I’m sick of it. You owe your life for what you did. Robb – if there was _anyone_ in the family who didn’t expect you were capable of betraying us, it was him.” The utter lack of comprehension in his voice makes Theon cringe. “Damn it, Theon, you two were brothers just as much as he and I were!”

It’s all Theon can do to will back the tears. “I know. You’re right about everything. Just – just do it.”

“I don’t think I can. Not anymore.” Jon falls silent, and he looks even grimmer than before when he goes on, sounding entirely too uncomfortable for what he’s going to say to be anything but something Theon wishes he’d rather not hear. “Do you know that you talk in your sleep?”

“W-what did I say?” Considering all the things he told Podrick without intending to even when he was awake and not sick . . .

“Enough to make me change my mind.”

Theon was right, then.

“Mostly, you kept begging not to be hurt anymore. For ‘the master’ to stop, because you ‘knew your name now’. And . . . well. Robb and Sansa and me, we seemed to be in your thoughts a lot. You kept asking us to kill you so the pain would end, and talking about how sorry you were, and how you knew you could never make up for it all.”

Theon turns his head away – he can’t look Jon in the eye – but Jon grabs his shoulders.

“Look at me!” he demands and Theon obeys. “Do you mean it? If you could do it again –”

“I would! I’d do everything! I’d die to somehow – if I could change it –” He’s cut short by coughing, but it seems enough for Jon, who lets go of him, sighing as he closes his eyes for a few moments.

“All right, I believe you.” He shakes his head, and now he looks more worried than angry. “You also talked about what he did. Ramsay Bolton.” Theon can’t help but shudder at the mere mention of the name, and Jon’s expression turns to outright concerned, making Theon feel ever more confused. Shouldn’t Jon be glad he was punished?

“A clean death,” Jon says quietly, “that’s what my father or Robb would have given you, what I’d have wanted for you. Not – not _that_. All things considered, I think you’ve been punished more than enough already.”

For some moments, Theon can’t process what’s happening. Even though Jon said it before, he didn’t truly expect to be spared. He’d known death would be waiting for him ever since he decided to bring Sansa here.

“You – you’re not . . . ?”

“No,” Jon confirms. “Nobody’s going to die if I can help it. I – gods, Theon, I just can’t do it!” He rubs his hand over his face, and now there’s nothing left of the grim Lord Commander, and Theon recognizes the boy he knew. “I’ve had enough members of my family, of _both_ my families die. I’ve had to execute men I thought of as brothers! But it’s enough. No more.”

“But we never . . . I’m not your –”

“Yes, you are! You proved it with what you did for Sansa. She told me you tried to lure them away from her, that you’d have gone back to Bolton despite everything he did to you, to save her. Or did I get that wrong?”

Theon can only shake his head.

“See. And you wanted to bring her here even though you must have expected I’d most likely kill you. Back in Winterfell . . . we were stupid boys, summer children who didn’t know any better. But those boys are dead, we’re men now.” He hesitates, then holds out his hand.

Theon half believes all of this must be another cruel fever dream, but he manages to lift his own shaking right hand from under the furs and grasp Jon by the arm.

“Thank you. Thank you, Jon, thank you _thank you_ . . .”

He can’t help himself, can’t stop repeating it over and over, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind. He only keeps waiting, patiently, until Theon lets go of him and falls silent.

“You should try to sleep some more, you need it,” he says when Theon has calmed down – he’s terribly embarrassed, but at the same time feels relieved in a way he hadn’t thought possible. “Sansa will come and see you later. She’s been worrying herself sick.”

“How long have we been here?”

“Five days, and you spent another six mostly unconscious before. It’s a miracle you survived.”

Theon thinks he knows who worked that miracle: a kind, round-faced squire who thinks far too little of himself.

“You need rest,” Jon repeats. He is right, Theon can barely hold his eyes open anymore, and it’s only a minute or two before he drifts off again. The last thing he feels is the furs being tucked tighter around him.

*-*-*-*

The next time he wakes up, his head is aching less, but he still feels weak like an infant, and he’s got no inclination whatsoever to leave bed anytime soon, despite the fact that this time, he registers that he’s drenched in cold sweat and reeking.

Of course he is, it’s his _name_ after all, he thinks somewhat incoherently before he wills the thought away. It’s not true, not anymore – no, never was true in the first place.

It’s a struggle to open his eyes, but when he does, he quickly forgets about names: there’s Sansa sitting on a chair by his bedside, her eyes closed, chin on her chest. She’s asleep, and from what he can make out through the tiny window of the room, it must be night or at least evening. How often has she done this since they arrived? Judging by what Jon said about her _worrying herself sick_ and also what little he remembers from when he was ill out in the wild . . .

She shouldn’t, really, but then, if that is what she wants to do, it’s not his place to tell her differently. He should be grateful, instead.

For now, he is perfectly content to watch her sleep. She looks better than he remembers during the journey: her face is clean and has regained some color, and her tidily braided hair is shimmering softly in the dim firelight. That, too, reminds him of Winterfell, of long evenings he’d spent with the family, staying in the background, pretending not to care that he never quite belonged, or at least that’s how he felt then. Looking back, it seems to him that even so, he didn’t belong any _less_ than he did on the Iron Islands – his father and brothers certainly never treated him half as well as any of the Starks. Even Jon was much better than Rodrik and Maron.

And Sansa – he had hoped sometimes that he might wed her, which of course had been a foolish boy’s foolish dream. Now, he’s beyond glad that she doesn’t hate him and still not quite certain how that is possible at all.

“Theon!”

He barely has time to realize that Sansa woke up before she has flung herself out of the chair and onto the bed, her face buried against his neck.

“I thought you’d die on me!”

Her breath is hot against his skin, making him shiver. He expects for her to sit up, but when she doesn’t and only clings to him tighter, he manages to lift his left hand from under the furs. For a few moments, he doesn’t quite dare do it, then he touches her hair with trembling fingers – it’s as soft as he always imagined.

“I wouldn’t. I won’t. I promised.”

“Yes.” Theon isn’t certain whether she is laughing or sobbing. “Yes, you did.”

Now she does sit up, looking down at him with tears in her eyes and a brilliant smile that makes him want to dissolve into thin air. Instead, he manages to hold her gaze and doesn’t pull away when she takes his hand.

“Does that mean you won’t leave when you’re better? Now that I’m with Jon?”

Leave? “Where would I go?”

“I thought maybe – home?”

Home? What does she even mean?

“The Iron Islands?” When she nods with a frown, all he can do is shake his head in return. “I don’t belong there anymore. I couldn’t – I never had a chance after my father had to give me away.” It’s a bitter truth, but it _is_ true, and what would he do there? He couldn’t rule; even if Ramsay hadn’t ruined him for it in more than one way, the ironborn wouldn’t accept him as their leader. The kingsmoot would never choose him. He had forgotten their way of life and their customs when he’d returned the first time, expecting to be hailed as the heir. He’d been an idiot.

“My father and sister, they don’t want me, and they don’t need me. She’ll rule after him. I’d only be in the way.” And he can’t believe they’d look on him favorably after he refused Yara’s attempted rescue.

Sansa’s grip on his hand tightens. “I . . . _we_ need you. Even if – even if it was our father who took you from them.”

Her face is so earnest as she says it, and it seems so _important_ to her that although he still doesn’t quite understand, there’s really just one thing he can say. “We’re not responsible for what our fathers did.”

“No,” she says slowly, and watching the smile reappear on her face makes him feel warmer than the furs spread over him, “no, we’re not. So – you’ll stay with us?”

“I’ll stay.”

It’s then that the door opens to reveal Podrick, who’s carrying a tray with what seems to be food.

“Lady Sansa? The Lord Comman- um, your brother asked me to tell you that it’s time for supper.”

“Thank you, Podrick.” Theon expects her to get up, but she leans in closer and brushes a kiss on his cheek, gently squeezing his hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” All he can do is nod and attempt to squeeze back; being treated like this – like a _true_ brother – is too overwhelming still.

When she is gone, Podrick helps Theon into a half-sitting position, stuffing furs behind his back like Jon had done earlier.

“Hungry?” he asks, and to his own surprise, Theon nods.

“Good.” Podrick frowns as he fetches the bowl and spoon from the tray he’d placed on the table. “You’ve barely had anything since even before we arrived.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s out before he can stop himself.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault you got sick.”

Podrick has sat down on the edge of the bed and is holding the spoon to Theon’s lips. It’s embarrassing, but he knows better than asking to try to eat by himself. He would only spill everything; he’s too weak, his hands still shaking like an old woman’s. Already, he feels tired again, and if he weren’t so hungry, he wouldn’t fight it and just go back to sleep.

As Podrick slowly feeds him one spoonful of thick, hot soup after the other, Theon realizes that this isn’t so bad – for some reason, it’s easier to imagine that Podrick doesn’t mind doing this than it is with Sansa or Jon. When half of the soup is gone, he’s struggling not to doze off while eating, and Podrick puts the bowl away.

“You should rest now, you can go on later.”

He wants to protest and tries to sit up – he knows where he is and that Ramsay is not here, yet he still somehow feels as if the food might disappear while he’s not looking.

“It’s not going anywhere,” Podrick says as he touches Theon’s shoulder, making him slump back against the furs. “I promise.”

Drowsily, Theon wonders if this, too, is something he divulged during his fever dreams, but he’s too tired to think about it for long.

“Just rest,” Podrick repeats as his eyes slip closed, there’s soft cloth wiping at Theon’s chin, then the furs are being pulled higher – just like Jon did. He didn’t imagine that, did he? They all _care_ so much, they’re so _gentle_ , when all they should want is to see him dead . . . He sobs weakly, already half asleep, then there’s a comforting hand on his hair, petting and soothing, and he doesn’t want to think anymore of how wrong all of this is.

“It’s all right,” comes a whisper from somewhere above him. “Everything’s all right now.”

It doesn’t feel right – being full and warm, not hurting, not being afraid – but Reek is stupid, Reek doesn’t know what is right anyway. He sighs and allows himself to slip deeper into sleep.

*-*-*-*

This time, when Theon wakes up, it’s with a vague feeling of urgency that he can’t place. He only knows is that there’s something wrong – something that he should do, that he needs . . .

“Theon? Are you awake?”

It’s Podrick, watching him from the chair next to the bed; he’s holding a shoe that he’d apparently been in the process of polishing when Theon woke up. It’s dark still – or again, he can’t be certain. He’s lost all sense of time, just as he’s lost any proper connection to his body, which still feels too detached to make him grasp –

“Is everything all right?” Podrick asks with a concerned frown.

“I’m – I’m not sure, I think I need to –” It’s then that he gets it, but it’s too late already. All that he can do is close his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Podrick as hot wetness slowly spreads around his groin.

The chair’s legs are scratching over the floor and he whimpers. Lord Ramsay had hated when this happened, he’d punished him every time until he’d regained control after –

“Theon.”

There’s a touch on his shoulder, and he wails, trying to shrink away from it, deeper into the furs. He’ll be punished, he’ll be _hurt_ , he knows it, and still he can’t help but try, even when breathing is becoming difficult, his throat closing up in fear.

“I-I’m sorry m’lord, I’m . . . I’m s-s- _sorry_ , I didn’t . . . I-I c-can’t –”

“Theon.” His cheek is cupped ever so gently warm fingers brushing over it, and it makes him only more afraid – that and the name. “Theon, look at me.”

“Not Th-theon . . . Reek, I’m . . . I’m –” He can’t go on, can’t _breathe_ , and he’ll be hurt _so much_ , Lord Ramsay will –

Cold water splashes over his face, his eyes fly open and he splutters, sucking in air in deep, shuddering breaths.

Podrick is standing over him, empty cup in hand.

Reek – no, _Theon_ , his name is Theon and he knows it! – can only stare at him mutely for a while, still trying to catch his breath. It’s Podrick. Podrick, not Ramsay. He can’t hurt him, not anymore.

“Are you – do you know where you are?”

Theon nods. “Castle Black,” he finally manages. Water is running from his hair into his eyes, and he wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Relief is written clear all over Podrick’s face as he puts down the cup on the table next to the bed. “Thank the gods,” he mutters.

Theon can barely keep from apologizing, but he looks down and forces himself to swallow it – he knows Podrick doesn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t really know what else to do.”

Podrick apologizing instead makes it worse; he’s so much of a _bother_ , and to think what Podrick will have to do now . . .

“I can guess what happened, Theon. I don’t mind. It’s not the first time, you know. You were unconscious for almost two weeks.”

Podrick’s gentle hand feels heavy on Theon’s arm, and even heavier when he understands, finally, what it all means: Podrick knows. Of course he does – they _all_ do, he realizes with an increasingly sick feeling, because he’d told them during his fevered ramblings, told them everything that Ramsay had done to him, he remembers that now.

But if he’s been unconscious for so long, and during their way here . . .

“Did . . .” His voice will barely obey him, “did Sansa see it? What he . . . what he did?”

“No. Lady Brienne either. They’d wanted to help, but – I didn’t think you’d want that. I know I wouldn’t.”

Theon shakes his head; he’s beyond grateful, but he can’t seem to get out one more word.

“I’ll get some warm water and soap,” Podrick goes on quietly, “and once you’re back on your feet, if you don’t want to, there’s no need to ever talk about this again. All right?”

Theon can only nod and lie back against the furs. He tries not to think of anything as he waits for Podrick to return, tries to tell himself that it won’t be so bad: Podrick has done it before, and he said he didn’t mind it.

Still, _Theon_ does mind, and when Podrick comes back after a short while with a bowl of water, a bar of soap, and a towel, he closes his eyes. If he can just pretend this isn’t happening . . . It doesn’t get better when Podrick peels away the furs and starts undoing the large cloth Theon’s by now realized is wrapped around his groin. It’s becoming hard to breathe once again, his fists clenching into the furs he’s lying on. He hates being undressed, hates being helpless like this – it reminds him too much of Ramsay, of how he’d bow over him and touch him and –

“Theon.”

It’s _not_ Ramsay’s voice, and he gasps and opens his eyes, looking up into Podrick’s worried face.

“I know you probably want to pretend you’re not here,” Podrick says. “But I think it might be best if you didn’t. If you kept looking.”

He’s right – Theon needs to know, needs to see that it’s Podrick who’s touching him. He nods weakly, forcing himself to do as Podrick said when he sets to his task again. He is gentle and quick about it, but still, by the end Theon almost wishes once more that he’d found the courage to die out in the snow. He’s shaking like a leaf, and he can’t stop his teeth from chattering even minutes after Podrick is done. When the narrow bed shifts beside him, he flinches – for a moment, he means to see Ramsay there – but it’s only Podrick, he realizes, who spreads the furs over both of them before he carefully pulls Theon into his arms.

Strangely enough, this time Theon doesn’t feel caged, doesn’t feel like he needs to escape. Instead, he holds on tightly, face buried against Podrick’s chest as he listens to him singing, one soft, monotonous song after the other. After a few of them, his teeth stop chattering, and after some more, he’s no longer shaking – now he only feels exhausted, and almost ready to go to sleep again. A while later, Podrick falls silent; Theon is convinced he’ll get up, but instead he only pulls the furs a little higher over Theon.

“You’re a very brave man, do you know that?” he asks.

If he remembered how, Theon might laugh at that. “I’m – I’m not even a man anymore.”

“That’s not what makes you a man. It’s what you do.” Podrick sounds as if he meant it, and Theon wishes he could believe it were true. “And what you did, today and before, for Sansa – it proves you’re a brave man. A _good_ man.”

Theon can’t reply, but just shakes his head against Podrick’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to believe it today. Give it some time.”

“Podrick, I –”

“Please, call me Pod.”

“Pod. Is that what your friends call you?” There’s no answer for too long, and Theon curses himself. He really shouldn’t have presumed Podrick might want –

“I’ve never really had friends.”

“Oh.” It’s something Theon has a hard time believing – he’s met few people who’re as likeable as Pod. Except for Robb, and he can’t think of Robb now. “I – I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It just – there wasn’t the opportunity.”

Now that is something Theon understands. He didn’t have the opportunity either, except for – damn it, but didn’t he just tell himself not to think of Robb? Theon forces himself to take a deep breath. This is about Pod. “Will you tell me what happened?”

Pod hesitates, but in the end he agrees. “There’s not much to tell, though,” he says. “I was four when my mother left. My father had died in battle a year earlier, so I lived with a relative, Ser Cedric Payne.”  
Theon would like to ask why – why did his mother leave him? But then, why did his own father not seem to care that Theon was gone? You can’t get answers to that kind of question, so he stays silent.

“Ser Cedric didn’t’ – he was a hard man, but he took care of me. Taught me how to be useful, how to care for his horse and to polish his mail. In truth, well, I think I was a burden on him more than anything. It tends to be that way with everyone I serve. I’m . . . not really very good at anything.”

Theon can’t stay silent at _this_ , though. “You’re very good at taking care of people. You took care of me, every moment of the journey, and here as well. I doubt I’d be alive if it weren’t for you.”

“That wasn’t really –” Pod starts, sounding embarrassed, but Theon surprises himself by interrupting him – he knows wouldn’t dare it with anyone else.

“I mean it. You saved my life. And – and the singing, it helped a lot. And what you did earlier –” He still hates even thinking about it at all, but he needs to say this. “You were – I wouldn’t want for anyone else to do it. I’m lucky Lady Brienne has you for a squire.”

“Thank you.” Pod sounds so sincere, so truly appreciative of what he said that Theon is fairly certain between this and all that he told him that nobody ever showed much appreciation for Pod. It’s not a feeling that’s unfamiliar to Theon, but he doesn’t want to dwell on it.  
“Did your mother sing those songs to you?” he asks instead.

“No. I don’t really remember much about her. Just that she had brown hair and green eyes, and how she’d smile at me before my father died. But other than that . . . No, the songs – Ser Cedric had a whore, and she liked to sing to me. Her grandmother had taught her all these songs and tales when she’d been a little girl.” Pod is speaking very quietly now. “She reminded me of my mother, just the way she’d look at me sometimes. I think she must have had a child who died. I remember a few times when she’d hold me and cry.”  
Theon has to think of the farmer’s boys, and of his own mother, and he wishes he hadn’t asked.

“I’m glad she was there,” he manages to say.

“Me too.”

There’s nothing else to say, and Theon sighs and closes his eyes, grateful that for now, Pod shows no inclination to get up. It doesn’t take long before he is asleep again.

*-*-*-*

Theon knows there’s something wrong just by the look on Sansa’s face when she enters his room, Jon following closely behind her. He, too, is frowning deeply, and Theon, who’s sitting at the small table under the window, puts aside his breakfast of bread and cheese.

“What happened?”

“It’s Rickon,” Sansa says. “Ramsay – he’s got him.”

Jon holds up a slip of paper. “He sent a raven taunting us about it. We’re going to rally the northern houses. We’re going to war.”

Of course, Theon had known that this might be an option. Even without everything that happened to Jon – and he’s still not fully understanding that, so he tries not to think about Jon _coming back from the dead_ – he’d assumed that fighting for Winterfell with the help of loyal northerners would be something Sansa might want to do. Still, now that it’s been said – and on top of that, now that Ramsay has _Rickon_ . . .

He grits his teeth, closing his eyes for a few short moments as the world threatens to blur. When he opens them again, the two of them are looking at him with worried expressions, and he wishes they didn’t.

“When are we leaving?”

At his question, Sansa sits down on the second chair right next to him. “You don’t have to come.”

Theon shakes his head. “I do. Without me – it’s my fault that – that Ramsay got him in the first place. If I hadn’t –”

“Theon.” It’s Jon. “Sansa is right. You don’t have to come. Nobody will think any less of you.”

“ _I_ will!”

“You’ve done enough already,” Sansa says softly, touching his forearm, and for one frightening moment, he wants to yell at her – at them both – for being so stupid and also for treating him like a child. At least it feels that way.

“If you truly meant it,” he murmurs instead, looking neither of them in the eye, “if I truly am your – your brother, then I’m Rickon’s brother too. And then I can’t stay behind any more than either of you could. I know I probably won’t be any use fighting but . . . I need to come. Please.”

Sansa’s hand wanders down to his, squeezing gently. “Then we’ll go together, and we’ll save our brother together.”

Jon steps closer, one of his hands coming to rest on Theon’s shoulder, the other on Sansa’s, and Theon is glad that he barely flinches.

“We’ll go together,” Jon confirms, and Sansa adds, “And we’ll _stay_ together, once all of this is over. All of us, in Winterfell.”

Theon nods and so does Jon, who pulls away again, heading for the door. “We’re leaving in a week. I’m going to prepare the letters to the lords. Sansa, will you come help me? You’ve always been better at diplomacy than me.”

“You go on; I’ll come in a moment.”

He nods, and then he’s gone, and Theon wonders what Sansa might want to tell him that she can’t say in Jon’s presence.

“If we lose the battle,” she starts, her voice shaking ever so slightly, and she wouldn’t have to go on for him to know what she’s asking, “if I can’t do it myself . . .”

When she tails off, Theon puts his right hand on hers, holding on tightly. “I won’t let him have you. I promise.”

Sansa nods. “And I promise you. Never again.”

“Never again.”

She smiles sadly. “I couldn’t ask it of Jon. He doesn’t – he just can’t understand.”

Their hands are still clasped between them, both holding on even tighter. Nobody else understands. It’s written clearly in the darkness in Sansa’s eyes, in the way her fingers dig into Theon’s, hot and painful, and the intensity of their connection almost frightens him. Then she gets up, pulling him with her and into a tight embrace.

“Never again,” she whispers, breath warm against the skin of his neck, “please, Theon, never again.” Theon can feel her tremble against him, remembers all the times Ramsay made him watch while he hurt her, and he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around her as well.

“Never,” he repeats, and whatever might happen, he intends to keep this promise. Just for now, in this moment, he feels strong and brave enough, and although he knows it won’t last, he prays that he’ll remember it when he needs to.

They stand like this for what feels like a very long while, then, slowly, Sansa loosens her hold, and Theon follows.

“I should go and help Jon,” she says as she steps away from him, “and then begin preparing for the journey. The lords will expect us all to look the part. I have to start sewing.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

She shakes her head. “Just recover more. We’ll be travelling again for weeks.”  
He wishes he could be more useful, but Sansa is right. After two weeks he’s still too weak, needs too much sleep, and even though they’ll be better prepared this time, the journey will be hard and they surely can’t afford him slowing them down.

It’s some moments after Sansa is gone that it all sinks in fully; everything is spinning around him and Theon has to hold on to the corner of the table in order not to fall. He manages to sit down on the chair and takes a deep gulp of his ale, but it doesn’t help much.

“Theon?”

There’s the sound of wood scraping over wood, and when he looks up, still clutching his goblet, Pod is sitting next to him.

“Ramsay’s got Rickon,” Theon hears himself say as if from far away, head still spinning. “We’re going to war, to save him and take Winterfell back.”

“I know. Lady Brienne told me.”

Theon wants to answer, but can’t, and instead he takes another gulp of ale.

“Is it because you might see him again?” Pod asks. “Ramsay?”

Theon begins nodding, then shakes his head, and finally shrugs. He doesn’t know how to explain.

“Then what is it?” Pod shifts closer, his solid body warm against Theon’s side, and when his arm wraps around Theon, he barely flinches before he lets his head fall against Pod’s shoulder.

“Just – I don’t – this isn’t right. Nothing of it. I don’t deserve this. To go home with them like they offered, not when Robb and the others –”

“Nobody gets what they deserve,” Pod interrupts. “It’s not how the world works, and we both know it.” Spoken in his soft, steady voice, the words don’t sound quite as harsh as they might from someone else. “You got another chance, and they didn’t. It’s not fair, but it’s how it is. All you can do is try and get it right this time.”

“But what if I don’t? It’s not – I can’t even think clearly half of the time, and how am I supposed to make better choices like this? If Rickon or Sansa or Jon . . . if something happens to them or to _you_ because of me, because I’m too stupid to –” Theon’s hands are shaking so badly that ale is sloshing over the rim of his cup, and then it’s taken away and instead, Pod’s free hand wraps around his, calloused fingers brushing the scars of his missing one. Theon shudders, but doesn’t pull away.

“You know who you are now, don’t you? You didn’t when you had to choose between Robb Stark and Balon Greyjoy.”

Does he, really? When he’s not thinking about it consciously, most of the time he still thinks of himself as Reek. But he’s not, he knows that, even if he hasn’t managed to say it out loud. And Pod is right – back then, he hadn’t known. Now . . .

“I’m . . . I’m _Th-Theon Greyjoy_.” Part of him expects Ramsay to materialize out of thin air at the words, and he jerks in Pod’s hold even though no pain comes – not now, and not several shallow, trembling breaths later. “I’m Theon Greyjoy,” and it’s just a bit easier, “my siblings are the Starks and Jon Snow, and the Salt Throne can go fuck itself, I don’t care!”

Now that it’s out, he feels almost hysterical, and Pod holds him close when he starts laughing, and closer still when the laughter turns into sobs, his fingers carding through Theon’s hair, again and again, until the sobs quiet down, gentler than anything Theon can remember even from _before_.

“And do you know,” Pod asks when Theon is only sniffling anymore against the mess that’s Pod’s cloak under his cheek, “do you know how else I know that you won’t make the wrong choice again?”

Theon shakes his head.

“Well. You were alone when you went to Pyke. It doesn’t strike me as the best idea for someone in your position – and truth be told, Robb Stark should have realized that.”

Theon doesn’t like that train of thought and where it leads – it was _his_ fault, not Robb’s. He’s the traitor, the one who failed. Robb _trusted_ him, that’s why he let him go by himself. And yet . . .

“Maybe on Pyke – if . . . if I’d had someone with me . . .”

Pod nods. “That’s done, though. We can’t change it. But now, if you have to choose again, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Of course, they can’t truly know that. Wars are coming, with Ramsay Bolton, with White Walkers and dead men, and the gods know what other creatures. There’s no telling where any of them may end up. But Theon is too tired to argue, and moreover, he doesn’t want to.

He won’t have to do it alone. It’s all the promise he needs.

 

_\- The End -_


End file.
